The East Wind
by LittleLongHairedOutlaw
Summary: *HLV Spoilers* (post-Unknown Variables) "The east wind takes us all in the end." - Sherlock Holmes. The time between the plane taking off and landing again.
1. Runway Reflections

"Who knows?" A shrug, as if it doesn't matter.

Of course he knows. The shields in his eyes couldn't quite hide the knowledge, and I longed to reach out and hug him, but couldn't. Had to respect the enforced distance he put between us, make it easier on him. (What about me?)

He's going off to his death. Must be. Why else such a sombre tone to his voice, instead of the buoyancy of a case, of his excitement at something new, and different? It's the only logical explanation resulting from this undercover work.

He's going to die within the next six months. (And I've brought him to this. My best friend. He wouldn't be flying out on that plane now if it wasn't for me, and Mary.) I wonder, idly, how it will go. A bullet? A knife? A noose? Thinking about it is too difficult (though real). His body, pale and cold and bloody. (Not false from jumping off a building, yet that's the image that my mind juxtaposes.)

The plane has taken off. Too late now to tell him how sorry I am that it's come to this, how I wish that it could be different. (Illogical sentiment, he'd say if he could hear my thoughts now. Not going to get him or us anywhere.)

The east wind that takes us all in the end, has swept him off to his end. And whether he fights for those six months, or lasts longer, or gives up (he won't give up, surely not, he can't) remains to be seen, but he'll never be coming back to British soil again, unless in a wooden box, dead and hardly recognisable.

Yet, Mycroft has said six months. So six months it shall be. And no more.


	2. Runway Sentiments

Burning behind my eyes. Stinging pinpricks, physical manifestation of emotional agony. Chest feels hollow, torn in two, bleeding. (Internally, mentally. Not real, imagined. (Psychosomatic, sounds so familiar.)) Why does leaving feel like this? Apprehension at slowly impending death – understandable. Ordinary. (I was never ordinary. Ostracised. Freakish. Always the outsider, destined to play the role again. Outsider undercover. Infiltration.)

I watch out the window as they fade away down there on the pavement, slipping away. Further and further out of reach. Out of my life, now. (In truth, I lost them long ago. Back at the beginning. The new beginning. The wedding. Extra deduction. All coming back. Undeletable, though malignant. Agonising. Kept out of sentiment. I've made my peace with sentiment. (Not really, but easier to pretend.))

I hope that Mycroft is wrong, though this time it's more than a sense of competition. I want to last longer than six months. I want to come back again, unlikely though that may be. Have a better reunion with John than last time (though he has more than enough in his life now without me, and by the time six months have passed the child will have arrived.) Mycroft is never wrong about these things, though. A part of me wants to accept my Fate and fade away as quietly as those people on the pavement, crawl into a hole and die somewhere. It's overshadowed by another part, the part with the scientific curiosity about who John's baby will take after. It seems crucial to know something like that, though I am not part of that world anymore. (Will John tell his daughter about me? Or try to forget that this whole period of his life ever happened?)

I still feel the press of his hand in mine, a haunting warmth, lingering though slowly dissipating. So close, yet interminably far. I almost told him, almost forced the words out, but I couldn't leave him like that. Couldn't let that burden sit on his mind too. Enough that I know, that I realised before it was too late. (It's always been too late.) At least in six months I'll still have the memory of him smiling.

(Nothing that I could have said would have done anyway, words falling inadequate once again. At least I've given him this chance to have the family he was always meant to, instead of leaving him to wonder over what ifs and maybes. It never could have lasted, anyway.)

My throat aches with the force of all that I've left unsaid, down on that runway and always.

I'll be dead soon enough that it won't matter.


	3. Runway Return

Home again. Back to London, Baker Street, John. Not going to die sometime within the next six months. The idea is taking some adjusting to as the plane turns around – but what does that matter? England is in danger, I'm needed here. Not undercover in Eastern Europe. Though I don't yet know the precise nature of this danger, I find that I don't care. It's enough that Mycroft is bringing me back. I don't need to worry about the details just now. I just need to settle the sudden adrenaline surge.

(Suddenly glad I didn't tell John what I was going to. He'd never look at me the same way again, and if I'm not dying, then I don't want to deal with the awkwardness. But still. I get to live.)

I find that – in spite of all of my attempts at keeping the emotion inside – my eyes are welling up in tears again. (Most unusual experience, crying out of happiness.) And yet, I am smiling. Can't seem to stop smiling. Will have to rein in my sentiment when the plane touches down and I step off again, switch into the serious consulting detective whom everyone expects me to be. (Perhaps just this once, I can let them see beneath the veneer. If I hug Mycroft, they'll think I've gone mad. Should probably do that some time just to annoy him, so he doesn't know for sure how grateful I am for this reprieve, for the stay of my execution.)

A case. A real case. Not one involving subterfuge and my eventual murder (which could as easily be by our people instead of theirs) but an actual case with – maybe – decent evidence, a proper mystery. Not ferreting out information for Mycroft to act on at his leisure. (And John by my side, likely as not. Helping with the process, stimulating genius. Not yet caught up with the baby, because this is far bigger, if England is in danger and Mycroft isn't noted for exaggeration in the line of duty. So John will be there, my best friend, for a little while longer. And not even the inevitable distance between us can dampen my spirits now, because I'm going back to Baker Street when I thought that I'd never see it again. (And maybe this time, after this reprieve, I should begin visiting my parents more often. But just so they don't begin dropping in for unannounced visits to check up on me. Nothing would surprise me anymore where they're concerned.))

That east wind has blown me home again. Seems I'm not as unworthy as everyone always thought.


End file.
